Locked in the mind palace
by Lestrudel S
Summary: Sherlock is in a coma; he only knows that he's locked in his mind palace. It used to be a safe, comfortable place, a place he could almost call home. Not any more, not ever again. Rated for what's to come. Please R
1. Chapter 1

"It's obvi-" Sherlock's words were cut short by the lack of air in his lungs. He couldn't breathe. He collapsed on the floor, his body contorting, his limbs stretched and bent at odd, sickening angles. John was by his side in an instant, but he had no idea what to do. The last thing Sherlock heard was a scream of _call the ambulance- _it was John, he could see that, but his voice was distorted, sounding completely different. For the first time since he was a child, the Consulting Detective was scared, really, genuinely scared. The cry for an ambulance, the last thing he heard; John's face, the last thing he saw; pure fear, the last thing Sherlock Holmes _felt_, before his clinical death.

* * *

The mind palace; it always looked the same on his quest for information, a fact hidden somewhere in the recess of his mind, under a rug, in a cupboard, sometimes written on a note and stuffed in a piggy bank. He just had to look and he would find it, but this time, there was nothing _to _find. So why was he there?

"I- he can't be...can't be dead..." Sherlock heard John say somewhere in the distance, his voice choked.

"John? John!"

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Watson." said a voice he didn't recognize. Could be a doctor. The voice had some of John's familiar, reassuring tones, always calm and measured.

"_John_!"

_Come on, Sherlock, think. That's what you do best. Better than anyone else_... _how would do you contact someone who isn't close enough to talk to? Ah...the telephone_. Sherlock pulled his Blackberry out of his pocket- why it was there, he didn't know -and called John's number.

"Sherlock?" said John, sounding surprised. It had worked...

"John, help, I think I'm stuck in the mind palace, _help me_..."

"Nurse! His eyes are open!"

John couldn't hear him, obviously, but he knew that Sherlock wasn't dead. Dead to the world, perhaps in a coma, but not dead to John. _His _John. As long as he was alive, John would be there for him. He missed him already...

_Help me, John..._


	2. Chapter 2

"The doctors say you can't hear me...I'm a doctor, too, and I know you can't, but maybe...maybe it'll help you wake up sooner. Help you wake up...wake up at all." John said, sitting in the chair next to Sherlock's bed. He looked like he would if he was asleep, but he barely ever slept, so it looked strange to John, to see his best friend lying in bed, limp, lifeless, useless. He was probably bored to death, he thought, grinning weakly. He really _had _been dead, at one point, although he came back to life, somehow. That was Sherlock; if he was going to die, he would do it when he wanted, how he wanted, and if it wasn't perfect he would change it. Change his fate.

"Sherlock...if you _can _hear me, you should know that...when I thought you were dead, my whole world crashed down around me...I thought that was it. No more cases. No more you. No more Sherlock, my best friend in the world...so promise me something. Promise...promise me that you won't die. Not now."

* * *

Sherlock sat on the sofa of what must have been the living room of the mind palace, listening to the pain in John's voice, and knowing that there was nothing he could do to stop it. He promised silently not to die, but that wasn't a promise he could keep, not really. John kept talking after that, but Sherlock couldn't listen. He tried to get away from the sound of his best friend's voice; hiding in a bedroom, a bathroom, an attic, a cellar. The harder he tried to block out the sound, the louder it got. He found himself screaming _shut up, shut up, shut up_, but, of course, it didn't work. Sherlock ran up the doors from the cellar into the hallway, running to the front door and pounding on the solid wood, hurling himself against it, trying to get out. He tried desperately to smash a window, but the glass wouldn't break. He eventually lay under a double bed in one of the many bedrooms and waited for John to stop talking, crying, talking. Sherlock wept too; for himself, for his best friend, for the fear he felt that he would never wake up...  
When John finally stopped, it was late at night in mind palace world, and Sherlock crawled out from under the bed, collapsing on top of it and sleeping immediately.

Sherlock has read about out of body experiences, but he had never had one. His dream was of John sitting by his bedside, asleep. He saw himself, his soft skin even paler than usual, his eyes closed. Everyone looks younger when they sleep; they just look more vulnerable when in a coma.  
Sherlock tried to talk to John, but he couldn't hear him. He touched his best friend's shoulder, and his fingers went straight through the wool of his jumper. He walked through the door of the private room, morphing through it as if it was nothing more than air, to find Lestrade and Mycroft sitting next to each other on the plastic hospital chairs. They were awake, but didn't talk. Sherlock tried to wake up but couldn't pull himself out of the dream state, and instead ran out of the hospital doors, into the car park, hitting some invisible barrier when he reached the edge of it. He tried to speak to the people milling about, but no one could hear him. He willed himself to wake up several times, but couldn't until the morning came, and he returned to his hospital room, pulled by some invisible force and falling into his own barely breathing body, waking in the mind palace, covered in sweat, his curly hair plastered to his forehead. He had no desire to face another day in the mansion, a place that once felt safe but was transformed into a house of nightmares.


	3. Chapter 3

John sat by Sherlock's bedside; he wouldn't be persuaded to leave, not by Lestrade, not by Mycroft, not by Molly, not by Mrs. Hudson, and although they had all visited they didn't stay as long as him. It was three in the afternoon of the second day of Sherlock's stay in the hospital, and there had been no change in condition. He could breathe by himself, barely, but there was still a lot of life support in place. John half expected his best friend to wake up and insult someone, probably the nearest nurse, but he lay limp and lifeless in the hospital bed. Twice his eyes opened, but the nurse confirmed that he couldn't see out of them. He couldn't see John; he was trapped in his own little world, it seemed.

No one knew what had caused the fit, why it happened, what damage it would cause. John had thought it some strange kind of epilepsy, perhaps, but a more reliable doctor informed him that Sherlock wasn't epileptic. He didn't have a seizure or a stroke, or even a heart attack. It baffled everyone, including John, although when Sherlock woke he would work out the answer and most likely say that it was obvious.

* * *

Seven billion people in the world; Sherlock had been so lonely in his mind palace, so incredibly lonely, and of the seven billion people in the world, the company his brain provided came in the form of one Mycroft Holmes. He found his older brother sitting on the expensive looking leather sofa in the reception room of the mind palace, eating a slice of cake, of all things.

"Hello, dear brother." Sherlock said stiffly, watching Mycroft as he finished the cake, placing the plate on the delicate glass coffee table in front of him.

"Sherlock." he said, nodding slightly.

"I don't suppose you have any idea why you're here?"

"Not the foggiest, unfortunately, although I know you sent me. I _am_ you, basically. You brought me here. I'm not the real Mycroft Holmes, just a figment of your imagination."

"Am I...am I going mad?"

"Oh, no. You're just delusional. You _are _in a coma."

"But surely if I sent you here, I control your actions?"

"You are, just sub-subconsciously, if that makes any sense at all. Basically, your subconscious is the person listening to 'me' talk. Your sub-subconscious as I, or rather, you, have dubbed it, is the mind palace and I. I being Mycroft. I am the mind palace, I am you. Your sub-subconscious controls your subconscious, rather than the other way round."

"Oh...right...I think that...makes some sense."

"I'm a human representation of the mind palace. I made you hear John yesterday, I made you have an out of body experience last night. I can move objects," Mycroft continued as the cake plate vanished, followed by the coffee table "I can make your experience here pleasant...or unpleasant." he said, smiling sickly as Sherlock found he had a terrible headache.

"Why you?"

"Oh, would you rather someone else?" Mycroft said, before morphing into Sally Donovan's form. "How about this, freak?"

Sally disappeared and then reappeared behind Sherlock. He spun around to see that she had changed into Irene Adler, wearing nothing but a smile. The mansion went black, suddenly, and Sherlock felt her hand on his shoulder as the ground shifted beneath them and they fell, fast, hitting the ground at speed. A candle was lit, spreading light and warmth through the room.

"You see, Sherlock? You're delusional. None of this is real, you know." the candle holder said in John's voice. "Maybe you're right. Maybe you _are _going crazy."

**_Er...I don't really know what this chapter is or where it came from, to be honest. It's kinda meant to show Sherlock's fears and the transformation of the mind palace from somewhere to look for knowledge into a dark, scary place...so ya xD  
_****_Psst! You there! If you review, I'll give you a slice of Mycroft's cake! It's delicious ;D_**


	4. Chapter 4

**_Hay der :3 first of all, thanks for all the reviews. Unfortunately Mycroft ate all the cake, so I can't give you it anymore :( but thanks, still. It's great to have so much good feedback, although I love con/crit just as much, if not more. My writing isn't going to be perfect, I'm only thirteen, although I do the best I can xD  
Anyway, as I'm writing this author note, I have no idea what's going to happen in the chapter I'm about to write. My Mum's out, so I'm currently partying- and by partying, I mean blasting out AWOLNATION from my laptop, eating Oreos and writing fanfiction. I think that's probably a good thing for this story; if what happens is unexpected to me, then it will be for Sherlock, and ultimately you. So...wish me luck xD_**

* * *

Sherlock looked as fragile as ever. His condition hadn't worsened, but it also hadn't bettered. John blogged about him, still; he described the fit, Sherlock's state, what had happened while he was comatose- which, as expected, wasn't an awful lot. He received a rather large amount 'get well soon' comments, which Sherlock would have absolutely hated, as he found the phrase useless, patronizing and utterly stupid. There were also theories as to why Sherlock was in a coma, ranging from plausible to probable to bizarre, most of which made John sure that his best friend was going to die. Trust the internet to make you feel better.

He was a mess. He hadn't left the seat beside Sherlock in three days, he stank, he barely ate but he wasn't hungry; the only reason he _did _eat was because Mrs. Hudson practically force fed food down his throat. He had long since ran out of things to say, and, in desperation, borrowed Molly's copy of 'the hunger games' to read to the consulting detective, who probably hated the book _and _the film. But what else could John do? He sighed, rubbing the dark, purple circles under his eyes. _Why can't you just wake up, Sherlock...?_

* * *

Sherlock briefly wondered whether his death while in the mind palace would result in his death in real life or make him wake up; he was about to test the theory, but decided it wasn't worth the risk. He had slept the night before, properly, with no out-of-body experiences. Maybe things would get better for him. He doubted it; the mind palace was in the mind of Sherlock Holmes- it wouldn't run out of things to torture him with for a while.

His blackberry vibrated in his pocket. He took it out of his pocket; Mycroft was calling him. This was another clever trick, obviously.

"Hello?"

* * *

The neurologist's mouth formed a small 'o' as he looked at the results of Sherlock's brain scan. The data and images made no more sense to John. He looked at his best friend, who was still inside the scanning machine, looking no different to how he would if he was asleep.

"What does it mean?" John asked, puzzled.

"The results show that your friend is...having a conversation. Or at least the scan looks the same as it would if he was talking to someone."

"How...how is that possible?"

"I don't know."

"Does this kind of thing usually happen?"

"No."

What was going on?

* * *

"You're currently having a brain scan, little brother. I though you might like to know that."

"Ah...the doctors will see that my brain's oddly active."

"Yes, I think they will."

"Even when I'm in a coma, I'm interesting."

* * *

"Is there any way to tell _what _he's saying?"

"Unfortunately, no."

John watched the consulting detective's brain scan changing on the computer screen.

"This is an amazing breakthrough, Doctor Watson. We'll have to scan other patients too, but this could lead to huge revelations in neurological science."

"You should probably test patients with a high IQ, then; Sherlock, he's...well, he's Sherlock."

* * *

"I wonder how they would react when the parts of your brain that process fear go into overdrive?"

"They would find that...interesting, although I'm really not guinea pig material."

"I didn't say that you have a choice in the matter."

"Can't they test a different emotion?"

"Well, that wouldn't be much fun, would it?"

* * *

"Strange..." the neurologist muttered.

"What?"

"Oh, his heart rate's picking up."

"Is that good or bad?"

"Neither, really. It all depends on how his brain reacts."

* * *

"Do you remember when-"

"Of course I remember, Mycroft, that's what I do."

Sherlock heard his brother sigh at the other end of the phone. "I think you might have been maybe five or six at the time. I was twelve I think-"

"Get on with it!"

"There was a snake in your room, wasn't there? Apparently it was a boa constrictor."

"Yes."

"You haven't liked snakes since."

"Yes."

Sherlock heard a hiss and looked down at the floor; a rather large reptile was slithering along the polished floor towards the consulting detective.

* * *

"His fear receptors are picking up a lot of information..."

"So he's having a nightmare?"

"Kind of. It's more like a self induced simulation."

"Isn't that basically a dream, though?"

"This is more advanced, more in depth."

John nodded. A complex, terrifying nightmare. Nothing that could actually hurt his best friend, theoretically.

**_Was that alright...? I hope so ^-^  
_****_Here's a delicious virtual cookie for reading (::)  
_****_You can have another if you review...;)_**


	5. Chapter 5

**_Hey guys :3 thanks again for all the good feedback. I took a screenshot on my phone of the reviews to that if I'm ever sad I can look at them and be happy ^-^_**

**_Once again, I have no idea what is about to happen. Really. That thing in the last chapter with Sherlock's brain scan? Had no idea that was going to happen.  
Anyway, I hope this is half decent. It's half eleven at night where I am, although when I update it probably won't be. I actually write best at night, no idea why. _**

Sherlock backed away from the snake cautiously, avoiding eye contact as if it was Medusa.

"Mycroft! Get the bloody snake out of my house!"

"It's no use asking, little brother. You have to find a way to make it happen."

"You already said that that's impossible!"

Sherlock could practically hear the grimace that Mycroft would have undoubtedly been pulling. "Exactly."

* * *

"His fear receptors are going mad. I don't suppose you have any idea what's going on in his head?"

John didn't have any idea what Sherlock's fears were; he would never admit to having any. He shook his head slowly.

"That's a shame; I suppose he can tell us if he wakes up."

John's stomach churned. _If_. He supposed neurologists don't have the bedside manner of a normal doctor.

"So he's doing this to himself?"

"It certainly seems like it."

"...why?"

The neurologist sighed. "No idea. He's the only one who can tell us. God, I hope he wakes up-"

"Can you _please _be a bit more considerate?"

"What?"

"My best friend is in a coma, and you say you hope he wakes up so that you know what happened in his head!"

"Ah, yes. Sorry. It's just that it's all very exciting."

* * *

"It's a puzzle, Sherlock. You're good at solving puzzles. All you've got to do is work out how to get rid of the snake."

"Do shut up, Mycroft." said the consulting detective, throwing the Blackberry at the snake's head. It didn't do an awful lot of, well, _anything_.

"You can't get rid of me that easily, little brother." taunted Mycroft, the voice emanating from the small radio in the corner of the room. "I'm trying to help, Sherlock. I'll even give you a clue."

"Which is?"

"None of this is real."

Sherlock stopped, realizing the significance of his older brother's words. _None of this is real..._in other words, the snake couldn't affect the version of him lying in a coma. He walked towards the reptile, and waited for it to come at him.


	6. Chapter 6

A snake bite shouldn't have been painful in a nightmare, but it was, somehow. Not so much the actual bite as the venom. It was sickening, making bile rise in Sherlock's throat, threatening to spill out. The snake disappeared shortly afterwards, as Mycroft said it would. Thankfully.  
Sherlock raided the cabinets in the mind palace kitchen for any kind of pain killer. He took five pills, not caring that it was an overdose. It wasn't like it could _actually _harm him, not if a snake bite didn't, although it didn't help. He felt more nauseous than ever and within half an hour he was sitting on the sofa with his head between his knees, not wanting to pass out even though it wasn't real. It _felt _very real, but it wasn't. Hopefully.

* * *

"So what you're saying is...what he goes through in a dream is..._real_?"

"Er...not quite. A file's been produced on his brain scan. It's the early stage of a theory as to what _actually _goes on when we're in a coma. Would you like to read it?" the neurologist asked, handing John a plastic file filled with several pages of medical theory and hypothesis. He took it without saying a word, opening it instantly.

_ASC (advanced simulation coma): a theory  
Introduction_

_Advanced simulation coma- or ASC -is a new theory as to what goes on in at least some patient's minds when they are in a coma caused by what appears to be a sudden, inexpiable fit. The patient seems to be stuck in a dream state; where this takes place is uncertain, but logically it would be somewhere meaningful to the patient, or somewhere in which they have spent a lot of time. If things happen in this dream state that would in real life cause the patient's heart rate and adrenaline levels to rise, the patient's physical being experiences these symptoms as if they really were happening. While this has happened in mild to moderate effect in patients before, one man's live brain scan has showed this happening in extraordinary amounts. Studies show that if a patient has a high IQ, they are more susceptible to ASC, and the affect the dream state has is more obvious. The reason ASC occurs is unclear, although there is a link between ASC and a lack of REM or deep sleep. The cause of the previous fit is always unclear- ASC patients are never epileptic or in any other way susceptible to fits of any kind. It is not genetic, as far as we know. As mentioned, the only link between patients is a high IQ, although eighty to ninety percent of patients are fairly young, in their mid twenties to late thirties. In the past five years, fifty patients have been diagnosed with mild ASC, twenty with moderate, and five with severe. The most recent case of ASC found surpassed the severity of any other patient's symptoms, his mind reacting almost exactly as it would if the situation he was in was happening in the real, physical world. A study of his particular case can be found in part nine of this document._

John braced himself for a long session of paperwork and reading, and got to work.


	7. Chapter 7

**_Hey guys ^-^ I'm assuming that none of you actually want to read a long, boring report on ASC- which, just to make it clear, is completely fictional and in no way meant to be similar to any other condition -so I'm just skipping through to the report on Sherlock, but if you do, tell me. Haha, you don't, I know xD just sayin'. And thaks again for all the views, reviews, follows and favorites. I update pretty quickly so you probably _****_will _****_need to follow to catch them all :3_**

_ASC: Advanced Simulation Coma  
_

_Section 9: Individual case study (Patient H)_

_Patient H (named for patient confidentiality) was accepted to hospital at 19:00, 29th June, after suffering what his friend described as a sudden fit. He was not epileptic or otherwise susceptible to fits and was aged thirty two, making him a typical ASC patient. He was taken for a brain scan on the first of July, and while the process was carried out experienced what might be called an ASCN- advanced simulation coma nightmare. Patient H's adrenaline level and heart rate became extremely high, almost exactly mirroring the results that would be received had he been experiencing the event in the real world. This is extremely rare; the only explanation is his extremely high IQ, only a few points away from Albert Einstein's. This reinforces the theory that the higher the IQ of a patient is, the more susceptible they are to ASC, and the more severe the effects ASC has on them while in a coma. One reason for this is that the higher IQ of a person, the more imaginative and creative the mind.  
There can be no indication as to exactly what he experienced while in ASCN, as his visitors say he rarely, if ever, discuses his fears. Patient H is a diagnosed sociopath, so this makes sense.  
In conclusion, Patient H is most extraordinary in the way he functions when in ASC, and with further testing will provide breakthrough into the development in the knowledge of ASC._

_Written by Dr. Theo Smith, copyright 2013_

John closed the file, furious. It looked like he had some questions to ask a certain neurologist.

* * *

Sherlock's ears were burning. What was the saying? That your ears burn when people are talking about you? Completely illogical, of course. The gain in temperature was most likely another side affect of the snake bite. It felt _so real_. How could it not be real?  
The paracetamol wasn't working properly; it had done nothing to better his pounding headache. He filled a bag with ice and held it to his forehead- see, he _had _learned something from John. Kind of. It was only common sense, really.

Ugh. He just wanted to leave. When he was bored his thoughts turned trivial, and he hated trivial thoughts because they weren't deep, and shallow thoughts were the first step towards ignorance, not to mention that it sapped brain power significantly, more so than efficient thoughts...

His headache worsened to the point where Sherlock thought he would pass out. It might have been a relief, but he was in the mind palace. Who knew what would happen in a dream- or nightmare?

* * *

"What _exactly _is going on here?"

"Doctor Watson, I'm sorry. I haven't even read the file myself, this information is extremely confidential-"

"What's this about tests? You want to do tests on my best friend when he's barely breathing?"

"Doctor Watson, please calm do-"

"TELL ME!" the neurologist looked away from John, embarrassed, avoiding the awkward stares of the other patients and visitors.

"Can we continue this conversation in my office, please?" John scowled.

"Lead the way."

The neurologist lead John down a sterile white hallway, his shoes squeaking on the oddly clean polished flooring. He smelled strong antiseptic, stronger than in most hospitals. He was becoming more observant by the day...  
The neurologist pushed open the equally spotless door, holding it for the army doctor, who walked in and sat down in a wooden, padded chair. The other man pulled the blinds closed before taking his seat behind the other side of the desk, stippling his fingers as Sherlock often did when he thought.

"You want to do tests on him."

"Not me personally. Theo Smith, yes. I really _don't _want to do any tests. It's irrational and quite possibly inhumane."

"You said you were interested in what was going on in Sherlock's head."

"Only in the way any other neurologist would be. I would never try to find that out by tests; I'd just _ask _him."

John looked at him. He seemed to be telling the truth. "Where can I find Dr. Smith?"

"You can't."

"Oh?"

"It's...it's complicated."

_Right. Like that's going to be a problem, with Mycroft and Lestrade on my side_.


	8. Chapter 8

"I need you to find someone."

Mycroft put down his tea, standing up from the seat by Sherlock's bed. John usually sat there, but he had been away talking to the neurologist. It was his seat, really. No matter how much Mycroft cared for his little brother, John cared more. "Will this be legal or illegal?"

"I'm not completely sure, but the law can't touch you. You know that."

"It can touch you."

"Oh, please. With you and Greg?"

"What about me?" asked Lestrade, walking into the small private room.

"I need you and Mycroft to help me find someone."

"Who?"

"A doctor called Theo Smith. I'm not sure which degrees he has exactly, but it'll probably be the standard and perhaps a degree in some kind of psychology, maybe biological, cognitive, behavioral... this is all guesswork, I really don't know."

"Right. I'll call Anderson and get him to look into the police files, although I really doubt he's been involved with the police at any point."

"Mycroft, um...do whatever it is you do. Please."

The older Holmes brother hid his grin badly, which unnerved John as it had been turned into a sort of smirk.

* * *

The mind palace garden was lovely; it was also walled, so Sherlock's chances of escape were still minimal, but lovely non the less. It spanned at least half a mile in any direction, connected to a small but equally lovely orchard. Sherlock was sure that it was too good to be true and his own mind would throw another horror at him some time in the near future, but he tried to enjoy it non the less.  
He had never been in the garden before, as his search for facts hadn't lead him there. Come to think of it, there were a lot of places that he hadn't been to within the mind palace. He wanted to explore, but thought better of it.

Sherlock began to open the gate to the orchard, the afternoon sun warm on his skin, almost smiling. _Almost_- his good mood dropped when he heard the voice.

"Hello, Patient H."

* * *

John's phone rang- it was a private number. He briefly wondered if it was Theo Smith, for some reason, and answered quickly.

"Hello?"

"I've found some stuff on Theo Smith. I can't tell you over the phone, can you come to the Yard?" It was Anderson. John almost sighed- whether it was of relief or disappointment, he didn't know.

"I'll be there in half an hour. Thanks." John hung up, putting his phone back into his pocket and grabbing his coat. He walked out of the private room and past Lestrade.

"Where are you going?"

"Scotland Yard, Anderson's got some intel on Dr. Smith. Hasn't he told you?"

"Well, you're kind of the head of this operation."

"Am I?"

"You're Sherlock's best friend; of _course _you are."

* * *

"Who are you?"

The short, dark haired man looked at Sherlock, smiling grimly. "Let's walk."

"That's very cliche- you really should try harder, it rather puts a dent in your mysterious image."

"Does it matter? This isn't real."

"You're a figment of my imagination; my hallucinations generally aren't so stupid, it's really quite worrying."

"Oh, _I'_m not a figment of your imagination. Your brain controls everything _but _me. I actually have the power to enter ASCNs; they're really quite fascinating when they're not your own."

"What do you mean by ASCN? And entering them?"

"As I said, walk, and I'll explain."

Sherlock sighed, not seeing why they couldn't _stand _and talk. Nonetheless they walked on into the orchard, Smith still smiling.

"Do you know why you are here, Patient H?"

"I had a fit, which lead to my lying comatose in a hospital bed, and this is some kind of dream, hallucination."

"You have that right; you actually _are _clever."

"I have a high IQ."

"That doesn't always make you a genius; there are people who can calculate extremely, amazingly fast, faster than any computer or super computer could. They could tell you the day of the week any event in history happened on or even project into the future, but have difficulty navigating a large city by bus and have an IQ somewhere below 110."

"You're saying that's me?"

"No, I'm saying that _could _be you, although no one like that has ever experienced ASC so I don't suppose you could be, actually."

"You still haven't told me what ASC _is_."

"Ah, yes. I suppose you would like some answers. ASC in the acronym for advanced simulation coma. An ASC patient experiences something similar to a dream, although it has effects on the physical being- raised heart rate and adrenaline levels while in ASCN, for example. Oh, don't worry, that snake bite hasn't actually done anything to you."

"ASCN?"

"ASC nightmare."

"Ah. So the snake episode...?"

"Yes. I'll continue with the explanation; the higher the IQ of a patient, the more- for want of a better word -_real _the ASCNs and ASC experiences are. Your IQ is extremely high, Patient H, not to mention you had this lovely mansion built already. I'll thank you for that- it made it a lot easier for me to get here and conduct my experiment."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "What experiment?"

"Oh, you'll see. Don't want to ruin the fun, do we?"


	9. Chapter 9

"So...Theo Smith was held trial for murder, but got away with it?"

"Yes...somehow. The jury was incompetent, more so than even your friend thinks I am."

John almost laughed. Anderson _was _incompetent, but he was proving extremely useful at that point in time. "And he was accused of letting a patient die?"

"More actually _killing _them, but as I said, he got away with it. Didn't you see it on the TV? It wasn't that long ago."

"I've watched a very small amount of TV since meeting Sherlock, to be honest."

"How's he doing, anyway?"

John looked at the other man quizzically. "I thought you hated him."

"Not enough to _want _to see him in a coma."

"He's stable. I'd explain the whole ASC thing but it really is complicated, it would take me half an hour."

"Right. Just...look, I don't know if you'll want me there- he certainly won't -but can I visit?"

"Of course. I mean, he can't insult you, so everything should be fine."

* * *

"What do you fear most in the world, Patient H?"

"Can you _please _stop calling me that?"_  
_

"Ah, no. If I identify you as an individual, a _named _individual, it'll be much harder to see you hurt. It brings back...memories."

Sherlock felt nauseous, imagining what the experiment could entail. Partly created by the brain of a slightly psychotic doctor, partly created by the brain of a high functioning sociopath; not a good combination, to say the very least. _It's okay, whatever he does can't actually hurt you..._

* * *

"He looks...strange."

"To say the least." said John, who was standing next to Anderson stiffly, arms crossed.

"I suppose he _is _in a coma. What do you think happens to him in the...ASCNs, was it?"

"No idea."

"What was that thing he used to do? He would make everyone leave the room..?"

"Oh, the mind palace? That was some kind of memory trick, I think."

"Maybe he's there."

"I'm not entirely sure how it works..."

"Maybe you should research it."

"Maybe. I have the feeling it would be a waste of time."

Anderson shrugged, watching his least favorite person's chest rise and fall. He looked as if he could be dead, apart from that. That was ironic- he had often wanted Sherlock dead, but when the time came that it was a possibility he could die, he didn't want him to. Anderson sighed, frustrated, and perplexed as to why he even cared.

* * *

"How do you know what's been happening to me?"

"Oh, you told me. Sub-subconsciously. I quite like that term, actually; you really _are _interesting. A palace, an orchard, fantastic terminology...ah, if only all patients were as clever as you. Why can't people just think, hm?"

"Then surely you know what scares me the most."

Smith smiled slightly, the corners of his cruel, thin lips barely lifting. "It's merely a scare tactic, asking you what you're most scared of."

"You can't scare me; the worst thing you could do is invade my mind, my thoughts, my _being_, and you already have."

"Are you sure, Patient H? I know you would gladly die for your friends."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly. "If my deductions are accurate- which they already are -you can only invade the minds of ASC patients, and only then if they are in a coma."

"Yes, that's right. But I am _actually _a real, physical human being, too. And I'm rather influential."


	10. Chapter 10

"I've always hated riddles. They're rather trivial. Please, Doctor, don't beat around the bush unless the bush needs beating."

"There is a bullet aimed at the chest of one Doctor John Watson, and there is nothing, _nothing _you can do to prevent your best friend's death; after all, you _are _in a coma."

Sherlock struggled against his barely used emotions, desperately trying to keep his face expressionless, almost porcelain mask. It could crack at any time and show the skin, the flesh, the tears, the pain beneath. "I know that."

"Well, then. Shall we begin?"

* * *

Sherlock's heart rate had risen; John alerted the neurologist, who put Sherlock's head inside the brain scan machine to check the frontal lobe activity, and whatever else he found relevant.

"What is it? What's happening?"

"It looks like he's having another conversat- oh. Oh, that's...interesting."

To John, interesting meant bad. "What's wrong?!"

"Last time, the two-way conversation was generated fully by Sherlock, but we aren't seeing two sides of the conversation here."

"So, what, he's talking to himself?"

"Ah, no, it's quite the opposite...someone is _inside _of his brain."

* * *

"Are you ready, Patient H? This won't be nice, but I'm afraid it's rather necessary to my cause. I need to see how you react while in ASC to a real life experience...you put yourself into one, which was extraordinary, during your first night here. Do you remember?"

"Of course."

The scene changed, and Sherlock was standing at the foot of his bed. To one side stood John and- who was that, Anderson? To the other side stood a doctor, who was looking at a computer screen, periodically adjusting the machine that Sherlock's head was in.

"Look out of the window to your far left. Do you see it?" taunted Smith cruelly, watching as the consulting detective slowly raised his eyes to see the sniper positioned from the top of a building. "Thirty seconds. And, before you try anything, John can't hear you. Or me."

"What do you think I am, an idiot?"

Smith smirked. "Yes. Twenty five."

"I have a watch."

"Oh, this just adds to the effect; the drama, the suspense, the whole enigmatic..._thing_. Twenty."

"I'm bored. If you're going to shoot my best friend, you could do it quickly." said Sherlock, badly hiding the fear in his voice. Smith chuckled.

"What would be the fun in that? Twelve. You could beg, if you like. Nine."

"I won't grovel for my best friend's life if there's nothing I can do."

The doctor tutted in mock disapproval. "Seven, six, five," Sherlock gulped, watching the unsuspecting expression on John's face, the last chance he would get "four, three," _I'm sorry, John _"two," _I'm so sorry... _"one..."


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock had seen dead people more times than he could count, but he had only seen someone physically _die _once. That was the cabbie from his and John's fist case; he was a murderer. He deserved it. Watching your best friend bleed to death, a hole in his chest, is a completely different ball game. _Don't react. Don't cry. Don't give him what he wants, don't give him results..._

"You're very unaffected by your best friend's death, Patient H. I wonder, was he really your friend at all, if you can so easily watch him die?"

Sherlock ignored the doctor and stared blankly at the shards of glass that had inelegantly fallen to the polished floor. He would look at anything but John's face. "Why? He didn't deserve to die so that you could get your..._results_."

Smith shrugged. "Collateral damage."

"Cold blooded murder."

"Collateral cold blooded murder, then. What's the difference? He's dead either way."

Sherlock stared at Smith's pristine lab coat, polished shoes, dark trousers. There was nothing to deduce about him, no way to trace him. His dark hair was in a sensible, unremarkable style, his accent wasn't specific to any region or country, his glasses weren't even marked with the brand. Slim, though not remarkably so. He looked perhaps forty, forty five, although Sherlock was sure that he was older than he looked. "What is your name?"

"You don't need to know that, Patient H."

"I know nothing about you."

"Exactly."

* * *

"It seems that your friend is in an overactive ASCN." said the neurologist, removing the headgear from Sherlock. "There's nothing further to monitor. He's in a stable state, although there's still no indication as to when he will wake up, if ever."

"ASC...is it harmless?"

"As far as we know."

John nodded. He tried to listen to what the neurologist said as he continued to talk about the details of ASC, but he couldn't concentrate. Perhaps he was paranoid, bu he had a sickening feeling that whatever was happening in his best friend's head, it involved him.

* * *

_This isn't real. This isn't real, Sherlock, don't let him mess with your mind..._

Sherlock was back in the orchard; Smith had vacated his brain, thankfully. He wandered through a straight clearing between two lines of apple trees, hating himself, hating he doctor, hating the beautiful mind palace.

_Is John really dead? No, he can't be. But what other explanation is there? This could just be a simulation, as always, a nightmare. Or he could be dead. I shouldn't think like that, I should stay positive, hopeful...but then, I am, have been, always will be a realist. Why stop now? I need fact and logic more than ever..._

Sherlock pulled the blackberry out of his pocket; should he text someone, call someone maybe? Who was there to call? He found himself dialing John's number, for no apparent reason. The phone rang exactly seventeen times, before John's answer tone played.

_Hello, this is John Watson. I can't answer the phone at the minute because I've been shot in the chest. And to think my best friend didn't do anything, didn't try to stop it happening, didn't-_

Sherlock hurled his phone at the nearest tree, his resolution to keep calm and logical completely breaking down. He sat under a large apple tree, his head in his hands. A bit not good.

**_Sorry if this was a bit confusing...basically, Sherlock isn't sure whether John is dead or not, but he isn't. Yeh. Sorry for the feels...think I know how Moffat feels now xD  
_****_Anyway, pretty please leave a review xD I like to know what people think :)_**


	12. Chapter 12

**_Sorry for the update delay; my charger broke so I couldn't us my laptop :/ but I'm back now :D  
Also, sorry for Lestrade's colourful language. I try to keep it at a minimum but it was necessary.  
PS. Tell me how I'm doing! :)_**

"John, you need to go home." said Lestrade, placing his hand on the army doctor's shoulder.

"No I don't." replied John angrily, quickly realizing how childish he had sounded and feeling guilty. Lestrade was trying to help. He couldn't, of course. No one understood how John felt, except maybe Sherlock's mother. Was that John's role now? To be the father that his best friend never really had?

"You do, mate. Go back to the flat, have a shower, get a proper night's sleep. You've been here for what is it, five days, now?"

"I don't want him to be alone."

"He won't be. I'll stay with him."

"You don't have to do that."

"He's my friend too, you know. You're not the only one who cares about him."

John nodded finally, standing up and rubbing his eyes, partly from fatigue, partly to hide the tears. Lestrade watched him leave slowly, the door closing behind him. He sat down awkwardly in the seat that everyone saw as John's property, feeling that he was invading the invisible space taken up by his and Sherlock's deep connection. He didn't say anything at first, he just sat there staring at the smart-arse who had first walked into his office seven years ago, when they were both younger, less weathered. They had hated each other at first, but Lestrade knew then that he was one of the very few people that Sherlock actually cared about, and that mattered to him. A lot.

* * *

John unlocked the door of 221b, pushing it open slowly and deliberately. It was deserted; Mrs. Hudson wasn't around, and Sherlock...

He sat down in his usual brown leather chair, feeling that he should do something, _anything _to end the eerie silence. Perhaps he should do what Lestrade had suggested; have a shower, sleep in his own bed. He realized that it was three in the morning and decided to skip the shower and, not realizing how exhausted he was, fell onto his bed fully clothed and, to his surprise, sleeping instantly.

He woke just after nine in the morning, for a moment blissfully unaware of his- or rather Sherlock's -predicament, for a split second genuinely believing that all was right in the world, his world, the small, no longer repetitive world of Doctor John Watson, blogger, GP surgeon, and, in his spare time, assistant to the world's one and only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes. He thought, looking back, that it was the deafening, alien silence that fully woke him. Silence was something unheard of in 221b Baker Street.  
John rolled out of bed, meandering along the small hallway into the bathroom, stripping off and turning on the shower, the hot water falling on his head. The steam, while relaxing, threatened to send him back into sleep, and as much as he wanted to drift of he forced himself to stay awake and face the day ahead, no matter how unsavory or mentally painful it would be.

* * *

He had only left to get a coffee. A bloody coffee. How, Greg Lestrade wondered, could the circumstances have changed so radically in two minutes?

"Where the hell is he?" the detective inspector yelled, barging into the neurologist's office; he had fallen asleep at his desk, papers crumpled around the fluff of his unruly blonde hair and peach-coloured face. He sat up, trying to hide the fact that he had been sleeping.

"Can't you see I'm busy?"

Lestrade tried to ignore the obvious insult on his intelligence, knowing that there were more important things to worry about than a twenty-something year old neurologist with a habit for being inconsiderate and annoying at the best of times.

"It's Sherlock Holmes. He's gone. Oh shit, oh shit...John's going to kill me..._shit_."


	13. Chapter 13

"Bloody hell, Greg! I go home for one night and this happens!"

"John, I'm sorry. I was only gone for a minute-"

"You might as well have been gone for an hour!"

"Doctor Watson, you need to calm down. I'm sure your friend is fine." began the neurologist.

"Calm down? Are you fu- what did you say your name was?"

"Arthur Stanhope, although I really don't see why that matters-"

"It matters, _Doctor Stanhope_, because Mycroft will hear about this."

* * *

Sherlock sat at the grand piano in the middle of a room somewhere in the mind palace, a room that looked like it was solely for musical theory and practice. It had replaced the living room as his thinking spot, he realized, as he placed a finger tentatively on a heavy ivory key, listening intensely as the sound got louder and he pressed harder, eventually becoming quiet again and fading to nothing. His mind palace was being fairly generous; he had discovered a room with no fresh horrors. Perhaps it was making up for John's death. It was a possibility- Sherlock knew his mind worked in mysterious ways.

It really was beautiful, the mansion, at least when it wanted to be, though it didn't change the fact that he wanted to leave. Desperately.

* * *

John chewed his lip as he watched the CCTV footage of Sherlock's ward; Lestrade left for a coffee, he saw. what came next was devastating.

The army doctor watched as three men entered the ward. The screen went black, and when it came on again, Sherlock was gone. Very clean, very quick, very professional. It had all happened in the time it took Lestrade to get his coffee, which couldn't have taken much longer than two minutes. Not very long at all. But while John wasn't a master of deduction like his best friend, he could analyze the evidence that had hit him in the face. Sherlock was gone, and it wasn't of his own free will.

* * *

The two doctors wheeled Patient H into the secure concrete building, the melancholy hallways all but deserted. The small wheels of the bed squeaked between the measured, precise footsteps on the way to the Patient's room, where the boss was waiting, hands behind his back.

"Is he in a stable condition?"

"As stable as he'll get. His coma is still in full effect, sir."

"Right then, in that case, I think it's time we woke him up."

**_So...how was it? Was it predictable or a complete surprise? Please tell me, if the mood takes you ^_^_**


	14. Chapter 14

"It's time for you to leave, little brother."

Sherlock sat at the piano in silence, not looking at mind palace-Mycroft; he wanted to leave, didn't he? He wanted to go back. But to who?

"Surely you don't want to stay in this god forsaken place, Sherlock, not that you have a choice in the matter. You can walk out of the door with me, or you can simply disappear. Which would you rather?"

"I'll cling on, Mycroft. If you're so determined to make me leave the reason can't be good."

"Dear me, Sherlock. You always were stubborn, weren't you?"

"Mummy always told me so."

A smile played faintly on the older Holmes's lips, a shadow of something that was full and warm once. The mind palace started to fade away around Sherlock, retreating into darkness and morphing into a room with no Mycroft, no piano, no windows, and an equally small chance of escape.

"Hello, Patient H. Did you have a nice nap?"

"I hope you realize that this is completely illegal."

"Yes, I do. I've gotten away with it more times than you could count."

"I'd give it a shot- I can differentiate between two hundred and thirty four kinds of tobacco ash."

"I've done this a lot more than two hundred and thirty four times."

Sherlock shrugged as best he could; the restraints on his arms limited the emphasis he could put on it. "Why am I here?"

"ASC is dangerous. Did you know that? We can't have you running around with that kind of mental capacity; you could overthrow governments, invent a fossil fuel substitute...no, it's _far _too dangerous to let you live, but we can't kill you- not after I got found out. So this is a compromise of sorts- you live, we experiment, and then, if you're really lucky, you'll get put back into your mind palace. Permanently."

"You couldn't do that."

"No? Then perhaps you'd like to explain why twenty other men and women are lying in an irreversible coma."

"You're a psychopath."

"Maybe."

"There's no _maybe _about it. You've imprisoned twenty people inside their own minds."

"Not all of them are as bad as yours; one man is stuck in his simulation of heaven."

"But not of his own accord."

"What does it matter? Collateral damage."

"For there to be collateral damage there would have to be a goal."

"There is a goal."

"Which is?"

"You."


	15. Chapter 15

_I'm the goal...? What do they want with me? Do they want me as a test subject? A plaything?_

Sherlock lay staring at the bare wall, thinking. Just thinking. Surely they had other people they could play with? The whole thing was awfully cryptic, and he hated cryptic people at the best of times. That was _not _the best of times- he was strapped into a bed with a morphine tube in his arm to numb the severe migraines he would have for the next few days. Without the drug he would pass out from the pain, and he couldn't do that, the doctors didn't want him to. He would go straight back into his mind palace, and he could only be there when they _wanted _him there. Sherlock was somewhat unnerved by the fact that his life was being controlled by psychopathic doctors, but he couldn't think of a way out, not when he was on drugs. That was another plus for the doctors- if he couldn't think of a way out, they could keep him in. And there was no one coming- John was dead, Lestrade probably was too and if there was anything Mycroft could do he would have done it already. There was no one left who cared about him. He thought he didn't need friends, he thought he didn't _have _friends, but Sherlock Holmes had underestimated his emotional ties to the world around him, and by a lot.

* * *

Mycroft's people were tracking down Sherlock's abductors; only the best men were in the team. Ne expenses were spared when it came to the rescue of the British Government's little brother, naturally. The _Prime Minister _was involved, for God's sake, it was a national emergency. Not that anyone knew about it.

Lestrade had _his _people scouring the hospital for evidence, checking police records, analyzing, evaluating, deliberating, _deducing_...and it was painful for John to think about, really, because Sherlock should have been there, and he should have been with him. He would have loved it; the mystery, the drama, the complexity, the tension, the pressure. He thrived under it. And the world needed him- he couldn't die, disappear of the face of the Earth. He had to live, fully, and save lives, deduce, work, do what only he did, and with an army doctor by his side. Where was he? _How _was he? Was he even _alive_? If it was Theo Smith- or his associates -that took him, there was a distinct possibility that he wasn't. And John didn't want to deal with that, and neither did anyone else.

* * *

"I don't want to talk to this..._Alice_, or whatever you're calling her."

"You don't have a choice in the matter, Patient H. I could just put you back in your mind palace if you don't comply, and I can make it extremely unpleasant for you. So if I were you, I would walk in to her room, sit yourself down, and talk to her. And for God's sake, be tolerable at least. She's only sixteen, and her mind's extremely fragile. And don't treat her like an idiot, either; before you came along, she was the most clever person with ASC alive."

Sherlock glared at Smith- there was no other way for him to lash out -before pushing open a heavy soundproof door. The room he entered was completely identical to his own, except for the fact that it had a small window in the top left corner, the thick, impenetrable glass barred and wired, out of reach. On a thin mattress sat a small, slim girl, her back turned to him, gazing out of the tiny window. Her long, blonde hair was matted, knotted, tucked into her shirt collar at some points and hanging loose and messy at others. Sherlock made no attempt at making deductions concerning the strange girl as the effects of his morphine hadn't quite worn off, and he batted away the information that came to him after she spoke her first sentence to him.

"I haven't had a visitor in two years, apart from the _doctors_, and they're not much company. But you're not a doctor, are you?"

"I think it's safe to assume that I'm not."

The girl turned her head over her shoulder, making steady eye contact with Sherlock, watching him with an expression that mimicked something that may have been amusement, almost as if she was laughing at him. He fought the urge to tear away from her pale blue eyes, feeling that if he did she would have some kind of advantage over him.

"They call you Alice."

"Yes."

"Can you elaborate?"

"Depends who's asking."

"It's fairly obvious that it's me who's asking."

"Oh, I know. I'm just...what's the word...joking?" she smirked at Sherlock before turning her head to stare out of the window again. "They name all of their patients. I suppose they like to, although it doesn't make them any more fond of us. You're Patient H, for example, at least you are if I'm correct, because of your last name. But they called me Alice rather than Patient F, or Patient 103, perhaps because I'm their clever little pet, sweet, innocent Alice. I look like her. Alice, from Alice in Wonderland, or at least I match the description given in the book. But there's also the fact that I developed Alice in Wonderland syndrome because of some of their electrical tests; micropsia, macropsia, they're the main effects, I'm sure you can put it into context. And nearly all of us have a place they go to during ASC; I've got a kind of dark wonderland. It's beautiful, when it wants to be, but most of the time it's beautifully...sad. Dark. Almost gothic. It used to be nice- if I needed an escape when I was little, I would just close my eyes and...switch universes. I would arrive in the middle of a field somewhere, with blades of grass towering around my head. I used to love it. But then I became comatose, the nightmares started, they killed my family, took me here..."

"Oh...I'm sorry."

"Sociopaths aren't sorry."

"How do you know that I'm a sociopath?"

"I just do...I won't explain."

Neither of them talked for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts, but eventually Sherlock broke the silence.

"How do you deal with the hallucinations?"

"I look out of the window. You started to grow, or I felt smaller, either, both, I'm not sure...but looking out of the window...it puts it all in balance. And when I look back, you'll be normal size."

"You're an extremely interesting person."

"I know."

**_While ASC is fictional, AIWS is real. I did some research on it but I don't have it myself so some of what's here may not be accurate. Please tell me if it's not :) ~Lestrudel_**


	16. Chapter 16

_**Hallo! I hope you all enjoy this update; if you do, pretty please leave a review. If you didn't like it, it's even more important that you leave a review so that I can improve in the next chapter.  
**_**_I hope you can all at least tolerate OC's. Sometimes they're good, sometimes they're bad- I'm hoping that Alice is a good one, because you'll be seeing quite a lot of her. Also, the rights to any quotes go to their respective authors. So enjoy! (hopefully) And thanks for reading._**

"Why do they want me to talk you you?" Sherlock asked the strange girl, who was still staring out of the window, almost as if she was pining for the outside world- which, he thought, he couldn't blame her for. Sixteen year old girls aren't meant to be cut off from society.

"I don't know. They're watching us, though. They always are; when we eat, when we sleep, when we stare out of windows forlornly in the hope of warding off another batch of Lilliputian hallucinations...ASC has no effect on our lives, you know, not unless we're in our own little worlds. They just like to watch us squirm."

Alice turned to face Sherlock, her expression set into a placid facade. It was almost disturbing to him to see someone so young so...so _mature_. Shouldn't she be thinking about clothes or makeup or boys rather than giving a speech about the people who held her captive? It was so wrong, so deeply wrong.

"It's melodramatic, I know, and I have an oddly large vocabulary, but why shouldn't I use it? I've barely spoken in two years."

"You could speak to the doctors, briefly."

"They don't appreciate the English language."

"Neither do I."

"You do. For all your logic, you're creatively minded. How do you find the solution to a puzzle if not by thinking outside of the box?"

"By eliminating the possibilities within it."

She shrugged slightly before turning back to the window, the low afternoon sun warming her small, rounded features.

"In my Wonderland, there's a house. A house with a library. I go to it, when I'm there through my own free will. It wasn't until lately that I realized it contained ever book I had ever read. And that means I can remember everything I've ever read, now, even when I'm not there. Do you know what it's like? To have the ability to recall the complete work of Dickens at will? To have Hogwarts in your head?"

"I can't say that I do."

"No, of course you can't. I'm the only person in the world who can."

* * *

Once again, John woke up sat at a table, fully clothed, with keyboard imprints on his cheek from the laptop he had fallen asleep on. But this time he had been woken up by something other than his dysfunctional body clock; the doorbell had rang.

The army doctor stood up slowly, rubbing the growing dark circles under his eyes before walking towards the door, and opening it to find a certain neurologist standing outside rather awkwardly.

"Hello?"

"Yes, hello. Um...this...Doctor Watson, this could be quite difficult to explain. Do you mind if I come in?"

John held open the door for Stanhope as he walked in, wiping his shoes on the mat.

"Look, I'm dumping myself in a huge pile of shit here, but I...I think I know where Smith is."

"What?"

"Well, _kind _of. I know the approximate area, it shouldn't be too hard to find again-"

"You've been _before_?"

"Look, I'm going to loose my job by telling you this, so shut up and listen to me!" Stanhope yelled, fully waking John.

"Alright, but this had better be bloody useful. Tea?"

* * *

Night came, and Sherlock found himself perched awkwardly on the other end of Alice's mattress as she recited a speech from Act Two Scene Two of Romeo and Juliet completely from memory, listening to the steady rise and fall of the pitch in her voice as if she was playing a musical instrument.

"'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;  
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.  
What's Montague? It is nor hand nor foot,  
Nor arm nor face, nor any other part  
Belonging to a man. O be some other name!  
What's in a name? That which we call a rose  
By any other word would smell as sweet;  
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called,  
Retain that dear perfection which he owes  
Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name,  
And for thy name, which is no part of thee,  
Take all myself."

"You like Shakespeare?"

"I like his characters. Juliet in particular. She shows how much of a forward thinking man he was; intelligent female characters just didn't exist in his time, but she's a character that can think for herself, and deeply. It's wonderful, really. While Romeo talks of his undying love for her, she talks of how his being a Montague and her being a Capulet doesn't matter."

"I was never much good at English comprehension at school. Chemistry was my strongest subject."

"You should get some sleep; obviously the morphine is still in your system, you're getting off topic."

"Which is?"

"That I'm intelligent, and I have a large mental capacity, slightly smaller than yours when in full working order. And you like intelligent people, don't you? Or you can trust them, at least."

"You can read me like a book, Alice. It's rather unnerving, actually, I'm used to being on the other end."

"What can I say? I like to read."


	17. Chapter 17

**_Hey :D I hope y'all like this update and what it entails. Pretty please review with what you like and don't like about this, the reason why I write so much is to improve, and it's a lot easier to do if I'm getting plenty feedback. Thanks for reading! ~LS_**

Sherlock had spent an entire night in the mysterious girl's room, and still he had no answers to his questions; how did she know these things about him? What made her such a genius? Why was he even _talking _to her?

But that, of course, was all about to become clear.

* * *

"You had better be telling us the truth."

"I am."

"You're sure you know where it is?"

"I couldn't forget if I wanted to- well, I _do _want to, but it's just as well that I haven't."

"I hope you realize, Dr. Stanhope, that I am the British Government in it's most concentrated form, and I can pull your world crashing down around your shoulders the very minute that I hear or see anything, anything _at all_, to suggest that you're lying to us and are in fact working for Smith."

"Yes, sir, I understand."

"Well, then, you had better get driving, hadn't you?"

Rory started the car, feeling the older man's eyes burning holes in the back of his head.

John held back his smirk as he watched the neurologist's eyes in the mirror; he wasn't Sherlock Holmes, that was for sure, but he could see fear and the feeling of intimidation in a man's eyes as clearly as if it were written on paper. But Mycroft _was _intimidating; he was rich, disturbingly astute, physically impressive in height and quite possibly the most powerful man in Britain, not to mention the fact that he was one of two Holmes brothers. In short, he was someone you did _not _want to annoy, and though John had gotten over the feeling of intimidation the fear was still there that Sherlock would get into trouble and he would get the blame, and then Mycroft would make his life hell.

"The last time I went to the bunker the windows of the car I was in were blacked out, but I know the exact location. It's near where my Gran lived. I used to visit when I was about ten."

"Why exactly _were _you at the bunker in the first place?" Lestrade asked from the seat next to the army doctor, who realized that Lestrade was rather out of the loop, which was unfortunate. No one wanted to hear about the neurologist's first time at the bunker again, and the man himself didn't want to speak about it, but what else was there to do?

"I was taking a gap year. I was the first choice for it, going to the bunker, that is. They needed a neuroscience student that was clever, but not clever enough to realize what they were doing. Well, that was me. Perfect candidate. They picked me up from my house a week after I got the letter offering me a spot there- I had accepted, obviously -and a day later we got to the bunker. It was up in the Cheviots, near Berwick, where my Gran used to live, like I said. That's how I know where it is. I was suspicious at first, but I convinced myself that I was just paranoid. They just had me doing general stuff, y'no? Ward checks and the like. But then they had me giving out pain killers, and that was when the penny dropped. Indirect euthanasia. They were killing them off, slowly, because they were dangerous. ASC is dangerous to economies, to governments. I hadn't been _told _it was ASC- they had made up fake mental illnesses to keep me from suspecting anything -but I looked deeper and deeper until I found out. And then I made my excuses and left. A month later, Smith- who had been the head of the bunker -was arrested for the murder of a patient in another hospital. He wasn't charged. I didn't tell anyone about what had happened at the bunker at the time because his trial was nothing to do with me. I got a job in a bleak little A and E in London. I did my job well, worked hard. But I still feel like a murderer."

They drove on in awkward silence, no one willing to break it for fear of what would come out.

* * *

The smaller but equally grim white-walled room was uninviting to Sherlock, though Alice pushed open the door with some kind of practiced- if reluctant -ease. He followed her into the room, watching as she sat in what looked like a white dentist's chair, her hands on her lap, eyes closed. Unsure of what to do, he sat in an identical chair next to her.

"This is one of a few dual iASC rooms. When we have two patients who have built up a fairly good relationship we bring them here. First, we induce coma on one patient before wiring the other to the first, melding your minds temporarily. It's simple, really. The results can be monitored through heart rate monitors and brain scanners. That was for your benefit, by the way, Sherlock. Alice knows how this works, doesn't she?" Smith taunted, having escorted them to the diASC room. Alice seemed oblivious to him; perhaps she was already in her Wonderland. It's better that way, Sherlock decided. To go on your own terms.

"She's sixteen."

"I'll thank you not to state the obvious, Patient H."

"I wasn't stating the obvious, I was stating the fact that what you're doing is completely immoral, which apparently _isn't _obvious to you."

"Sentiment is dangerous. You would do well to remember that."

A nurse entered the room, carrying a clear bag containing various pieces of headgear and two medical needles. She put it down on a polished silver table, taking out a needle and bringing it towards Sherlock.

"No. No, you're not bringing that anywhere near me, not if it's going to connect me to Alice. I can't let her get hurt."

"This isn't going to hurt either of you, sir. Let me administrate the sedative."

He gripped the arms of the chair so that the sedative couldn't be administered through his forearms. Some of the morphine was still in his system, though, dulling his usually sharp senses. The nurse plunged the needle into Sherlock's neck, making him flinch, his muscles tense. He fought to maintain consciousness but the room slipped into darkness slowly, the vision of the needle imprinted onto the back of his eyelids.


	18. Chapter 18

John, Mycroft, Lestrade and Rory sat in a bleak cafe somewhere in Manchester, sipping dishwater coffee and not saying an awful lot. Things had gone relatively well- John reckoned that if they kept moving they could be at the bunker in five hours or so. Hopefully Sherlock wouldn't be dead by the time he got there.

John finished the weak drink, knocking back the dregs and putting the mug down on the wooden table. He told the others that he was leaving, not in the mood to watch them all drink, and walked out to the car park where they had left the car. The rain poured heavily, plastering his cropped blond hair to his forehead. He didn't like the rain. Thankfully there hadn't been much of it in Afghanistan, he reflected.

And as the army doctor got into the passenger seat, feeling thoroughly sorry for himself, he realized that his time in Afghanistan might _actually _have been useful, because that was he he heard the ticking.

* * *

Sherlock's eyes opened slowly, revealing the completely alien world around him. The only familiar sight was Alice, who was sat in an antique arm chair reading _Pride and Prejudice_, her expression somewhat placid. They were in a grand library, the bookshelves towering above them, the thousands upon thousands of books dwarfing them both.

"I keep all of this in my head. Are you impressed?" the girl asked without looking up from her book, which was resting on her knees and between her hands. Sherlock looked around in awe; for once in his life, he had nothing to say. "I thought so. Welcome to the Wonderland- it's being rather lovely to us for now, but I don't expect that to last. There's a copy of Treasure Island on the table if you want it. Apparently you used to like that sort of thing."

"What's in the rest of this house?"

"I'm not completely sure. It changes when I'm connected to someone new. Feel free to look around."

"I don't want to trespass in your mind, Alice."

"You won't be able to go anywhere that I don't want you to."

"Unless you don't know it."

Alice sighed, putting the book down heavily on the arm of the chair, catching the sunlight as she stood. Sherlock squinted at her through the bright light, dust moats clouding his vision. He watched as she walked towards the large wooden door, pulling it open with both hands and holding it for him. "I'll physically stop you if you try to go further than I want you to. Okay?"

He followed her, walking through the door to face a sickeningly familiar sight.

* * *

Lestrade barely had the time to utter the words _oh, shit _before he was knocked to the floor by the pressure of the air, glass strewn around the cafe, which was left in utter darkness as the lights too had shattered. He had barely saw the explosion coming, and certainly hadn't had time to warn the other men, who were in a similar state as him. And that was when he realized that there _were _only two men- where was John? He had left, hadn't he? He had went back to the car. The detective inspector didn't have much experience with bombings- they weren't his division -but he knew what the effects of a car bomb were, and they were horribly similar to what we was experiencing.

"Mycroft!"

Lestrade's vision was clouded by smoke but he could hear Mycroft coughing, and it sounded like he was coming towards him. "Lestrade? Where are you?"

"Near you. I think. I need to go and find John. Wait here."

And with that, London's favorite detective inspector was up and running out of the rubble of the cafe, trying to clear his vision with his hands as he ran in the rough direction of the car park to find what looked like his Toyota on fire. There wasn't a trace of the army doctor to be seen.

**_So what did you all think? I hope the car bomb kind of gave the story an element of action. It's probably a bit of a cliffhanger...sorry xD_**

**_Anyway, please do tell me what you like about this chapter and the story in general. I love to hear from you all :D_**

**_~LS_**


	19. Chapter 19

**_Hi! As always, thanks for reading, I hope you like this chapter. If you haven't been getting email updates about new chapters it's probably because mail from is in your spam. _**

**_Anyway, enjoy, and if you have time and are so inclined, review! :D_**

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_Gunshots. That was all John could hear. And with each meant another death, or at least painful injury. And that was part of the reason why he had become an Army doctor. He thought that maybe he could prevent a few deaths. What he hadn't fully realized, though, was the fact that at some point he would have to cause one. He hadn't joined the Army to kill anyone; he understood that he could be killed himself, and he was fine with that, but he couldn't face killing another human being. Which was eventually what he did. It was in self defense, of course, because John Watson was a good man. He didn't lay waste to human life. He had been shot in the arm, and if he hadn't killed the man that did it he wouldn't have hesitated to finish him off. But that didn't justify what he did, not in his eyes. The fact that he didn't want to see another man bleeding to death didn't change the fact that it was his fault. Apparently soldiers- like psychopaths -have an empathy switch. In combat, they can simply stop being human. They can kill people because they stop feeling that killing is wrong, forget that it's murder, even if just for a minute. John was sure that he lacked that switch. And he didn't understand how anyone else could just switch off their humanity._

When John opened his eyes, it took him a minute to realize that he wasn't in Afghanistan any more, and that he was in a car park in Manchester having thrown himself out of his friend's Toyota. Said friend was standing on the other side of said Toyota, which was in flames, the smoke filling both their lungs and making them cough.

"Lestrade!"

"John! Where are you?"

John pulled himself up onto his feet, flailing his hands around in the hope that his friend would see him. He did, eventually. And when Lestrade got to the ex-army doctor there was something..._off _about him. His eyes looked manic, shocked, maybe. Shell-shock; that's what they had called it originally, wasn't it? PTS. But, actually, John's eyes weren't the problem. It was his hands that had made him look off. Majorly.

* * *

Sherlock's mind palace really was beautiful; that did not mean it was welcoming or even _inviting_, especially for something with such grandeur and lavishness. He had the feeling that the fact that the mind palace was a dark place didn't surprise him as much as he should. He didn't do simple. It always had to be complex. There was always a facade if something was beautiful, a shroud if it was not. And besides, Sherlock had always had some lurking fears. The dark- achluphobia. Snakes- ophidiophobia. Being thought of as ignorant or unintelligent- actually, he didn't know the proper name of that fear, or phobia. He preferred phobia; it was more scientific, and science is based on logic, and logic and hard facts were a comfort to him as the Bible is comfort to a Priest. Maybe that was what scared him. Things that were illogical. And the mind palace certainly was that.

"You were worried about trespassing into the darker corners of my mind...well, now it seems quite the reverse, doesn't it?"

"It's better than last time. At least I have a good library now."

In the corner of his eye the consulting detective could see Alice smirk, turning down a long corridor of the mansion, seemingly with no qualms about invading the most personal of Sherlock's spaces. She interested him. She was intelligent. And she also had no qualms about saying so. And maybe, he reflected, if he were to have a daughter, then perhaps she would be something like the small, blonde sixteen year old, who really looked no older than fourteen. And if she did, he would be proud.


	20. Chapter 20

_**Hello! As always, thanks for taking the time to read my writing. If you like it, leave a review! If you don't like it it's even more important that you leave a review so that I can fix the stuff you don't like.**_

_**Anyway, enjoy :D ~LS**_

John's hands were blistered and shaking, although he hadn't noticed until Lestrade had pointed it out. Because of his service in Afghanistan and his work as a doctor a bit of blood didn't scare him; in fact, very few physical injuries had any kind of affect on him. Burns and blistering, though, were the kinds of pain he hated the most, in himself and patients. At least blood is a natural thing, he reflected. Burns are not.

* * *

Alice liked the orchard. She knew, of course, that that was where she would bump into Smith- he liked that kind of thing -but that didn't stop her leaving the indoor part of the mind-palace-cross-Wonderland to inspect the beautiful plants and flowers and such. Sherlock wasn't far behind her, knowing that that was where Smith would be too. He knew his name, he realized, although it had never been spoken to him. Perhaps he was getting some of Alice's thoughts. She was certainly getting some of his.

Smith was standing besides a tree when Alice saw him; his expression was something between knowing and smirking, and his posture was something between casual and intimidating. She found him interesting- she hated him, but he was interesting nonetheless. They're the worst kind of interesting, she decided; interesting people beg to be explored, but you don't want to find out about them for fear that they'll rub off on you. You hate them for a reason, after all.

"You're not coming inside, so I hope you're comfortable leaning on that tree." she shouted over. He smiled grimly before replying.

"I'm perfectly comfortable here, thank you."

"So what are you here for?"

"Don't you think we should wait for our friend?" he replied in a false-polite tone, looking at Sherlock, who was standing about ten meters away from Alice, watching Smith closely as if he was another mind palace snake ready to launch itself at him. "No? Don't want to talk to me? Well, that's rather rude of you, isn't it? Not that it matters." he taunted before vanishing and reappearing between Sherlock and Alice. "Not when I can do that."

"You can't keep us here forever."

"It's within my power to do so; well, until one of you die. Which I virtually control."

"Mycroft's coming. Or Lestrade. John's dead but there are people who care about me left."

"Are you still clinging to that childish hope, Patient H? You really _must _be desperate. How do you think we got you in the first place? Your _friends _would have had to cooperate with us somewhere down the line."

"No. You're lying. They wouldn't betray me."

"John wouldn't. He was a good friend, you know. He wouldn't betray you even when we threatened to kill him. As for your brother and the detective inspector...well...let's just say that they don't have the bravery of the soldier."


End file.
